


the place that changes

by NotusLethe



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Introspection, M/M, Pre-Slash, Unresolved Sexual Tension, molly just fucking cares about all of them ok, will not make sense without watching episode 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 00:41:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13822857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotusLethe/pseuds/NotusLethe
Summary: After the manticore fight, Molly is left with some concerns.





	the place that changes

_ I built a home and wait for someone to tear it down _  
_ Then pack it up in boxes, head for the next town running _

_                                                                            "no roots" - alice merton _

 

The quiet murmur of a tavern gone past reasonable hours of drinking and well into problematic consumption does not dissuade Molly. He thrives in the sketchy secretive parts of life and knows how to mold it to his advantage. He wouldn't have lasted long otherwise, if the barest hint of danger sent him running.

He takes quiet stock of the patronage. The rowdy young crowd dispersed some hours ago. Now, it is only the honest blend of alcoholics and others with things to banish from their minds. He's not surprised to see Caleb haunting the darkest corner of the room.

The insouciant bartender with skin like cured venison could be lifted and unceremoniously placed in any other bar and wouldn't seem amiss. Maybe it was a requirement for the job, to look like you'd been over-baked with too generous a helping of don't-give-a-shit.

"Two of what he's having," Molly said, gesturing toward Caleb. The bartender grunted (it must be a _class_ they teach). Molly would be surprised by the potency of the liquor he chose if Molly hadn't made it one of his life goals to never get taken by surprise (an ongoing struggle).

He tips, just enough to be generous without sliding into overt bribery, and takes his wares to that shadowy corner.

"Mind if I sit here?" he asks. There's a way to say it that brooks no argument, but it rarely invites confidences.

Caleb startles, jerking up from his book. It's written in a language Molly recognizes but can't read instantly. Caleb frowns, or had been frowning and continues, then casts his gaze upon the wide array of empty tables. Molly refuses to take the hint.

"I should - if Nott-"

Molly sets the booze on the table, near enough for the smell to hit Caleb. "Ah, but little _liebchen_ left with Jester an hour ago."

He's expecting a bristle or grimace when he uses one of those words Caleb whispers to himself and Nott. Instead, Caleb's face drops, brows furrowed in concern. "Is she- I should go find her."

"If you'd like. Jester may get her into trouble, but she won't let Nott come to harm." He and Jester already discussed their arrangements. They would protect these soft-bellied fools from most everything they could, especially Nott. The things tieflings encountered prepared them in a way training never could, a way swords could never fight. Molly didn't mention to Jester that he'd put her under his umbrella of care, but suspected she either knew, or felt the same.

Caleb worries at his bottom lip. Does he trust Jester enough? Probably not; seems like Caleb doesn't even trust himself most of the time.

Molly pointedly does not say the many things that spring to mind. That Nott is capable and clever. That she survived without Caleb for a long time. That she's shown herself more resilient than Caleb much of the time. That daughters kept under their father's wing never soar.

Molly takes a sip of whatever trash Caleb is drinking. It's only years of consuming the shit the twins used to distill in their tent that keeps Molly from choking. The alcohol is the worst of rotgut: cheap, disgusting, and guaranteed to fuck you up.

At least his instincts hadn't been wrong (they rarely were).

"That… is true," Caleb concedes, sinking down into his chair  from where he'd perched like a bird ready to take flight. He looks around the room again, as though noticing everything for the first time, sees the drink at his elbow, the tankard Molly cups in his hands, and finally civility prods him into action. "Uh, you can sit."

Defeating a dragon would be easier than that sentence. Molly nods his thanks and maneuvers the chair so he sits on the same side as Caleb, where they can watch the smattering of patrons together.

In Molly's long history of manipulating people, he's discovered the wonders of silence. People encouraged by conversation, he finds, usually talk out their problems without much prompting. It's the quiet ones that bury it deep. Unless they've become comfortable, silence unsettled even the most reticent into filling the air.

He sips at the drink, forgetting that it's awful, biting his cheek to keep a straight face. If Caleb wants to drink to lose himself, surely there's something better.

Caleb pretends to go back to reading, but Molly can see him sneaking glances. Let him look; there's plenty to catch his eye - by design. If Molly's appearance wasn't half as distracting, he'd hardly get anything done. He knows how deceptive looks can be, and Caleb probably knows it too. Molly is not fooled by the trappings of unwashed, bedraggled academic. He's seen the quick, indiscriminate scams and the ferocious power of his spells on the battlefield.

Molly goes to take another drink but remembers in time. He pulls out some cards to keep his hands busy with something other than horrendous spirits. He shuffles mindlessly, a habit so ingrained he could do it unconscious. A table near the entrance explodes with laughter, a bright spark in the dull tavern, quick to fade.

He's thrown down a three-card spread: the World, the Tower inverted and - oh. The Lovers. Didn't necessarily mean anything.

Didn't necessarily mean nothing.

Molly pulls the reading in quickly. It'd be his luck that Caleb would have a random yet thorough understanding of the cards. He should know better than to read when he's not paying attention. Molly has never been one for beliefs or superstition but the cards have never betrayed him. They've pissed him off, certainly, but never turned against him.

Caleb, overwhelmed by the silence or Molly's presence or some other unknowable factor, closes his book. He sits stiff in the chair, eyes cast out, but attention not wavering.

"Why are you here?" he says gruffly.

"The fine company and even finer beverage assortment, of course." It's too flippant, maybe, and Caleb has to know drinking acid would be preferable to this swill. Sarcasm is Molly's goto. He's never had problems connecting to people, but pickier quarry required tastier bait. Molly stares down into his cup. "Couldn't sleep."

He says it softly and it loses the levity he'd been playing. It's a gamble, vulnerability like that, and given his penchant for lying (and eidetic memory giving Caleb an edge to catch him), Molly may lose the wizard.

There's a saying, he thinks, of crying wolf too many times. He doesn't remember the end of it.

"It's not uncommon," Caleb murmurs, audible only for the lack of noise.

Molly leans back, the jewelry on his horns clinking against each other softly. When he sets his arm over the back of Caleb's chair, it isn't to touch him. Just… being closer.

"You wouldn't say that if you knew me better," Molly says, fake salesman grin on his face.

"You've made it near impossible to get to know you." His tone isn't accusatory and yet.

Molly draws his finger through the air, marking an invisible point in Caleb's favor.

Caleb opens his book with long nimble fingers, nails bitten or broken to the quick, but idly turns pages rather than read. Molly is not being dismissed. Might as well take it as invitation.

"The way we handled the manticore still doesn't sit right." Ah, shit. That's practically a confession. He hopes Caleb doesn't pursue.

Of course, Caleb physically turns in his chair, his hand sweeping down Molly's arm briefly before curling against his side. "We had to rescue those people. And Nott-"

"No, I totally agree. The manticore needed to fucking die, yeah. But it- I-" what the fuck is happening to him. Molly clears his throat. "If we're going into prolonged encounters like that, we'll need a better strategy than 'hope it works out somehow'."

Caleb considers. He rests his steepled fingers against his lips, as though the response requires full concentration. "The whole encounter was illuminating. We will need to work with each other's strengths and weaknesses better."

Molly sighs - crisis averted -

"But that is not what you wished to say to me." Caleb - face filthy, auburn hair hanging in greasy chunks over his forehead - has the audacity to look Molly straight in the face, eyes keenly piercing despite his rankled appearance. _Fooled again, Tealeaf_.

"It's definitely part of what I wished to say." The excuse is so weak it limps across the space between them. He averts his gaze, and takes in the scratched table with not a few initials carved in it. "Back there, you- ah, you were pretty out of it."

"Oh." Caleb shrinks back under his coat, no longer confrontational. "It's nothing."

Molly almost chokes on a mirthless laugh. "It's not nothing, friend. I've seen that sort of thing before, and it's not nothing. Not at all."

Just on his tongue is the urge to say that _he_ has been there, _he_ has frozen in a memory that is so terrible it rends the fabric of reality for as long as it last. He doesn't, of course. Molly cannot afford that sort of revelation.

Caleb's head falls back, exposing the long line of his neck, pale and fragile. He turns slightly, just enough for his eyes to catch. "If you wanted a confession, you'd think you'd bring me something better than this shit."

This time, Molly's laugh has no compunctions. "You don't know how difficult it was for me to drink that, much less buy it."

Something small and unfettered, a near cousin to a smile, twitches at the corner of Caleb's mouth. "I can't. Not right now. But I - maybe."

"Alright." Molly didn't really think he'd get more than that, but it isn't outright rejection. He leans in. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

While he doesn't mean it in that way, Caleb's cheeks go ruddy. A grin - too genuine to be lavicious - creeps over Molly's face. He watches as Caleb slowly assesses his appearance: coat gone, shirt open to the navel, sprawled stance, and spread legs. His tail twitches behind him; he knows what that look means.

"What you did was good," Caleb manages in a somewhat strangled voice. Molly smoothes his hand over his own throat; blue eyes track it. He should stop, really, with the conversation going a way he never intended.

Foregoing his posturing, Molly reaches out with both hands and clasps Caleb's shoulders, the coat beneath rough and matted. "I mean it. No one should go through that sort of thing alone. And you're not alone, not anymore."

Caleb nods, and Molly takes it as his cue to leave. He gets a few feet away from the table when -

"Thank you," Caleb says at a whisper, though his eyes are steadfast.

Molly turns, walks a few feet backward. "You owe me a beverage I can actually drink!"

The lights are out when Molly enters the room. He doesn't like to undress completely in their stop-over inns, too wary of sudden urgent reasons to leave, but he removes his boots anyway. The girls would protest.

Jester curves around Nott's small body, back to the door. She doesn't start when Molly slips in beside her, but he knows she's awake. He expects her to say something, an inquiry or ribald innuendo. She merely grabs his hand and pulls it over her waist. Fine.

They slept like this in the circus, a pile of puppies jumbled together. Not all the time, not even often, but enough that there's inherent comfort in it. He hasn't cracked the shell around Fjord or Caleb yet - they'd refuse or get embarrassed if he asked, but Molly's making headway.

He's glimpsed enough into the core of these people to get a fair read. They're decent; even Beau, who butts heads with him like every little sister analog before her. He doesn't love them, not yet, not yet.

But it's a near thing.

 


End file.
